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I had called upon
my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year and found him
in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman with fiery
red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw when Holmes
pulled me abruptly into the room and closed the door behind me.

"You could
not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he said cordially.

"I was afraid
that you were engaged."

"So I am.
Very much so."

"Then I can
wait in the next room."

"Not at all.
This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and help er in many of my most
successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me
in yours also."

The stout gentleman
half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, with a quick little questioning
glance from his small fat-encircled eyes.

"Try the settee,"
said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together,
as was his custom when in judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that
you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum
routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the enthusiasm
which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat
to embellish so many of my own little adventures."

"Your cases
have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I observed.

"You will
remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple
problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange effects and extraordinary
combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than
any effort of the imagination."

"A proposition
which I took the liberty of doubting."

"You did,
Doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall
keep on piling fact upon fact on you until your reason breaks down under them
and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough
to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be
one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard
me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected
not with the larger but with the smaller crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where
there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far
as I have heard it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an
instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most
singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the
great kindness to recommence your narrative. I ask you not merely because my
friend Dr. Watson has not heard the opening part but also because the peculiar
nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your
lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events,
I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur
to my memory. In the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are,
to the best of my belief, unique."

The portly client
puffed out his chest with an appearance of some little pride and pulled a dirty
and wrinkled newspaper from the inside pocket of his greatcoat. As he glanced
down the advertisement column, with his head thrust forward and the paper flattened
out upon his knee, I took a good look at the man and endeavoured, after the
fashion of my companion, to read the indications which might be presented by
his dress or appearance.

I did not gain
very much, however, by my inspection. Our visitor bore every mark of being an
average commonplace British tradesman, obese, pompous, and slow. He wore rather
baggy gray shepherd's check trousers, a not over-clean black frockcoat, unbuttoned
in the front, and a drab waistcoat with a heavy brassy Albert chain, and a square
pierced bit of metal dangling down as an ornament. A frayed top-hat and a faded
brown overcoat with a wrinkled velvet collar lay upon a chair beside him. Altogether,
look as I would, there was nothing remarkable about the man save his blazing
red head, and the expression of extreme chagrin and discontent upon his features.

Sherlock Holmes's
quick eye took in my occupation, and he shook his head with a smile as he noticed
my questioning glances. "Beyond the obvious facts that he has at some time
done manual labour, that he takes snuff, that he is a Freemason. that he has
been in China, and that he has done a considerable amount of writing lately,
I can deduce nothing else."

Mr. Jabez Wilson
started up in his chair, with his forefinger upon the paper, but his eyes upon
my companion.

"How, in the
name of good-fortune, did you know all that, Mr. Holmes?" he asked. "How
did you know, for example, that I did manual labour? It's as true as gospel,
for I began as a ship's carpenter."

"Your hands,
my dear sir. Your right hand is quite a size larger than your left. You have
worked with it, and the muscles are more developed."

"Well, the
snuff, then, and the Freemasonry?"

"I won't insult
your intelligence by telling you how I read that, especially as, rather against
the strict rules of your order, you use an arc-and-compass breastpin."

"Ah, of course,
I forgot that. But the writing?"

"What else
can be indicated by that right cuff so very shiny for five inches, and the left
one with the smooth patch near the elbow where you rest it upon the desk?"

"Well, but
China?"

"The fish
that you have tattooed immediately above your right wrist could only have been
done in China. I have made a small study of tattoo marks and have even contributed
to the literature of the subject. That trick of staining the fishes' scales
of a delicate pink is quite peculiar to China. When, in addition, I see a Chinese
coin hanging from your watch-chain, the matter becomes even more simple."

Mr. Jabez Wilson
laughed heavily. "Well, I never!" said he. "I thought at first
that you had done something clever, but I see that there was nothing in it,
after all."

"I begin to
think, Watson," said Holmes, "that I make a mistake in explaining.
'Omne ignotum pro magnifico,' you know, and my poor little reputation, such
as it is, will suffer shipwreck if I am so candid. Can you not find the advertisement,
Mr. Wilson?"

"Yes, I have
got it now," he answered with his thick red finger planted halfway down
the column. "Here it is. This is what began it all. You just read it for
yourself, sir."

I took the paper
from him and read as follows.

TO THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE:

On account of the
bequest of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of

Lebanon, Pennsylvania,
U. S. A., there is now another

vacancy open which
entitles a member of the League to a

salary of 4 pounds
a week for purely nominal services. All redheaded men who are sound in body
and mind and above

the age of twenty-one
years, are eligible. Appiy in person

on Monday, at eleven
o'clock, to Duncan Ross, at the

offices of the
League, 7 Pope's Coun, Fleet Street.

"What on earth does this mean?" I ejaculated after I had twice read
over the extraordinary announcement.

Holmes chuckled
and wriggled in his chair, as was his habit when in high spirits. "It is
a little off the beaten track, isn't it?" said he. "And now, Mr. Wilson,
off you go at scratch and tell us all about yourself, your household, and the
effect which this advertisement had upon your fortunes. You will first make
a note, Doctor, of the paper and the date."

"It is The
Morning Chronicle of April 27, 1890. Just two months ago."

"Very good.
Now, Mr. Wilson?"

"Well, it
is just as I have been telling you, Mr. Sherlock Holmes," said Jabez Wilson,
mopping his forehead; "I have a small pawnbroker's business at Coburg Square,
near the City. It's not a very large affair, and of late years it has not done
more than just give me a living. I used to be able to keep two assistants, but
now I only keep one; and I would have a job to pay him but that he is willing
to come for half wages so as to learn the business."

"What is the
name of this obliging youth?" asked Sherlock Holmes.

"His name
is Vincent Spaulding, and he's not such a youth, either. It's hard to say his
age. I should not wish a smarter assistant, Mr. Holmes; and I know very well
that he could better himself and earn twice what I am able to give him. But,
after all, if he is satisfied, why should I put ideas in his head?"

"Why, indeed?
You seem most fortunate in having an employee who comes under the full market
price. It is not a common experience among employers in this age. I don't know
that your assistant is not as remarkable as your advertisement."

"Oh, he has
his faults, too," said Mr. Wilson. "Never was such a fellow for photography.
Snapping away with a camera when he ought to be improving his mind, and then
diving down into the cellar like a rabbit into its hole to develop his pictures.
That is his main fault, but on the whole he's a good worker. There's no vice
in him."

"He is still
with you, I presume?"

"Yes, sir.
He and a girl of fourteen, who does a bit of simple cooking and keeps the place
clean -- that's all I have in the house, for I am a widower and never had any
family. We live very quietly, sir, the three of us; and we keep a roof over
our heads and pay our debts, if we do nothing more.

"The first
thing that put us out was that advertisement. Spaulding, he came down into the
office just this day eight weeks, with this very paper in his hand, and he says:

" 'I wish
to the Lord, Mr. Wilson, that I was a red-headed man.'

" 'Why that?'
I asks.

" 'Why,' says
he, 'here's another vacancy on the League of the Red-headed Men. It's worth
quite a little fortune to any man who gets it, and I understand that there are
more vacancies than there are men, so that the trustees are at their wits' end
what to do with the money. If my hair would only change colour, here's a nice
little crib all ready for me to step into.'

" 'Why, what
is it, then?' I asked. You see. Mr. Holmes, I am a very stay-at-home man, and
as my business came to me instead of my having to go to it, I was often weeks
on end without putting my foot over the door-mat. In that way I didn't know
much of what was going on outside, and I was always glad of a bit of news.

" 'Have you
never heard of the League of the Red-headed Men?' he asked with his eyes open.

" 'Never.'

" 'Why, [
wonder at that, for you are eligibile yourself for one of the vacancies.'

" 'And what
are they worth?' I asked.

" 'Oh, merely
a couple of hundred a year, but the work is slight, and it need not interfere
very much with one's other occupations.'

"Well, you
can easily think that that made me prick up my ears, for the business has not
been over-good for some years, and an extra couple of hundred would have been
very handy.

" 'Tell me
all about it,' said I.

" 'Well '
said he. showing me the advertisement. 'you can see for yourself that the League
has a vacancy, and there is the address where you should apply for particulars.
As far as I can make out, the League was founded by an American millionaire.
Ezekiah Hopkins, who was very peculiar in his ways. He was himself red-headed,
and he had a great sympathy for all redheaded men; so when he died it was found
that he had left his enormous fortune in the hands of trustees, with instructions
to apply the interest to the providing of easy berths to men whose hair is of
that colour. From all I hear it is splendid pay and very little to do.'

" 'But,' said
I, 'there would be millions of red-headed men who would apply.'

" 'Not so
many as you might think,' he answered. 'You see it is really confined to Londoners,
and to grown men. This American had started from London when he was young, and
he wanted to do the old town a good turn. Then, again, I have heard it is no
use your applying if your hair is light red, or dark red, or anything but real
bright, blazing, fiery red. Now, if you cared to apply, Mr. Wilson, you would
just walk in; but perhaps it would hardly be worth your while to put yourself
out of the way for the sake of a few hundred pounds.'

"Now, it is
a fact, gentlemen, as you may see for yourselves, that my hair is of a very
full and rich tint, so that it seemed to me that if there was to be any competition
in the matter I stood as good a chance as any man that I had ever met. Vincent
Spaulding seemed to know so much about it that I thought he might prove useful,
so I just ordered him to put up the shutters for the day and to come right away
with me. He was very willing to have a holiday, so we shut the business up and
started off for the address that was given us in the advertisement.

"I never hope
to see such a sight as that again, Mr. Holmes. From north, south, east, and
west every man who had a shade of red in his hair had tramped into the city
to answer the advertisement. Fleet Street was choked with red-headed folk, and
Pope's Court looked like a coster's orange barrow. I should not have thought
there were so many in the whole country as were brought together by that single
advertisement. Every shade of colour they were -- straw, lemon, orange, brick,
Irish-setter, liver, clay; but, as Spaulding said, there were not many who had
the real vivid flame-coloured tint. When I saw how many were waiting, I would
have given it up in despair; but Spaulding would not hear of it. How he did
it I could not imagine, but he pushed and pulled and butted until he got me
through the crowd, and right up to the steps which led to the office. There
was a double stream upon the stair, some going up in hope, and some coming back
dejected; but we wedged in as well as we could and soon found ourselves in the
office."

"Your experience
has been a most entertaining one," remarked Holmes as his client paused
and refreshed his memory with a huge pinch of snuff. "Pray continue your
very interesting statement."

"There was
nothing in the office but a couple of wooden chairs and a deal table, behind
which sat a small man with a head that was even redder than mine. He said a
few words to each candidate as he came up, and then he always managed to find
some fault in them which would disqualify them. Getting a vacancy did not seem
to be such a very easy matter, after all. However, when our turn came the little
man was much more favourable to me than to any of the others, and he closed
the door as we entered, so that he might have a private word with us.

" 'This is
Mr. Jabez Wilson,' said my assistant, 'and he is willing to fill a vacancy in
the League.'

" 'And he
is admirably suited for it,' the other answered. 'He has every requirement.
I cannot recall when I have seen anything so fine.' He took a step backward,
cocked his head on one side, and gazed at my hair until I felt quite bashful.
Then suddenly he plunged forward, wrung my hand, and congratulated me warmly
on my success.

" 'It would
be injustice to hesitate,' said he. 'You will, however, I am sure, excuse me
for taking an obvious precaution.' With that he seized my hair in both his hands,
and tugged until I yelled with the pain. 'There is water in your eyes,' said
he as he released me. 'I perceive that all is as it should be. But we have to
be careful, for we have twice been deceived by wigs and once by paint. I could
tell you tales of cobbler's wax which would disgust you with human nature.'
He stepped over to the window and shouted through it at the top of his voice
that the vacancy was filled. A groan of disappointment came up from below, and
the folk all trooped away in different directions until there was not a red-head
to be seen except my own and that of the manager.

" 'My name,'
said he, 'is Mr. Duncan Ross, and I am myself one of the pensioners upon the
fund left by our noble benefactor. Are you a married man, Mr. Wilson? Have you
a family?'

"I answered
that I had not.

"His face
fell immediately.

" 'Dear me!'
he said gravely, 'that is very serious indeed! I am sorry to hear you say that.
The fund was, of course, for the propagation and spread of the red-heads as
well as for their maintenance. It is exceedingly unfortunate that you should
be a bachelor.'

"My face lengthened
at this, Mr. Holmes, for I thought that I was not to have the vacancy after
all; but after thinking it over for a few minutes he said that it would be all
right.

" 'In the
case of another,' said he, 'the objection might be fatal, but we must stretch
a point in favour of a man with such a head of hair as yours. When shall you
be able to enter upon your new duties?'

" 'Well, it
is a little awkward, for I have a business already,' said I.

" 'Oh, never
mind about that, Mr. Wilson!' said Vincent Spaulding. 'I should be able to look
after that for you.'

" 'What would
be the hours?' I asked.

" 'Ten to
two.'

"Now a pawnbroker's
business is mostly done of an evening, Mr. Holmes, especially Thursday and Friday
evening, which is just before pay-day; so it would suit me very well to earn
a little in the mornings. Besides, I knew that my assistant was a good man,
and that he would see to anything that turned up.

" 'That would
suit me very well,' said I. 'And the pay?'

" 'Is 4 pounds
a week.'

" 'And the
work?'

" 'Is purely
nominal.'

" 'What do
you call purely nominal?'

" 'Well, you
have to be in the office, or at least in the building, the whole time. If you
leave, you forfeit your whole position forever. The will is very clear upon
that point. You don't comply with the conditions if you budge from the office
during that time.'

" 'It's only
four hours a day, and I should not think of leaving,' said I.

" 'No excuse
will avail,' said Mr. Duncan Ross; 'neither sickness nor business nor anything
else. There you must stay, or you lose your billet.'

" 'And the
work?'

" 'Is to copy
out the Encyclopedia Britannica. There is the first volume of it in that press.
You must find your own ink. pens, and blotting-paper, but we provide this table
and chair. Will you be ready to-morrow?'

" 'Certainly,'
I answered.

" 'Then, good-bye,
Mr. Jabez Wilson, and let me congratulate you once more on the important position
which you have been fortunate enough to gain.' He bowed me out of the room and
I went home with my assistant, hardly knowing what to say or do, I was so pleased
at my own good fortune.

"Well, I thought
over the matter all day, and by evening I was in low spirits again; for I had
quite persuaded myself that the whole affair must be some great hoax or fraud,
though what its object might be I could not imagine. It seemed altogether past
belief that anyone could make such a will, or that they would pay such a sum
for doing anything so simple as copying out the Encyclopedia Britannica. Vincent
Spaulding did what he could to cheer me up, but by bedtime I had reasoned myself
out of the whole thing. However, in the morning I determined to have a look
at it anyhow, so I bought a penny bottle of ink, and with a quill-pen, and seven
sheets of foolscap paper, I started off for Pope's Court.

"Well, to
my surprise and delight, everything was as right as possible. The table was
set out ready for me, and Mr. Duncan Ross was there to see that I got fairly
to work. He started me off upon the letter A, and then he left me; but he would
drop in from time to time to see that all was right with me. At two o'clock
he bade me good-day, complimented me upon the amount that I had written, and
locked the door of the office after me.

"This went
on day after day, Mr. Holmes, and on Saturday the manager came in and planked
down four golden sovereigns for my week's work. It was the same next week, and
the same the week after. Every morning I was there at ten, and every afternoon
I left at two. By degrees Mr. Duncan Ross took to coming in only once of a morning,
and then, after a time, he did not come in at all. Still, of course, I never
dared to leave the room for an instant, for I was not sure when he might come,
and the billet was such a good one, and suited me so well, that I would not
risk the loss of it.

"Eight weeks
passed away like this, and I had written about Abbots and Archery and Armour
and Architecture and Attica, and hoped with diligence that I might get on to
the B's before very long. It cost me something in foolscap, and I had pretty
nearly filled a shelf with my writings. And then suddenly the whole business
came to an end."

"To an end?"

"Yes, sir.
And no later than this morning. I went to my work as usual at ten o'clock, but
the door was shut and locked, with a little square of card-board hammered on
to the middle of the panel with a tack. Here it is, and you can read for yourself."

He held up a piece
of white card-board about the size of a sheet of note-paper. It read in this
fashion:

THE RED-HEADED LEAGUE

IS

DISSOLVED.

October 9, 1890.

Sherlock Holmes and I surveyed this curt announcement and the rueful face behind
it, until the comical side of the affair so completely overtopped every other
consideration that we both burst out into a roar of laughter.

"I cannot
see that there is anything very funny," cried our client, flushing up to
the roots of his flaming head. "If you can do nothing better than laugh
at me, I can go elsewhere."

"No, no,"
cried Holmes, shoving him back into the chair from which he had half risen.
"I really wouldn't miss your case for the world. It is most refreshingly
unusual. But there is, if you will excuse my saying so, something just a little
funny about it. Pray what steps did you take when you found the card upon the
door?"

"I was staggered,
sir. I did not know what to do. Then I called at the offices round, but none
of them seemed to know anything about it. Finally, I went to the landlord, who
is an accountant living on the ground-floor, and I asked him if he could tell
me what had become of the Red-headed League. He said that he had never heard
of any such body. Then I asked him who Mr. Duncan Ross was. He answered that
the name was new to him.

" 'Well,'
said I, 'the gentleman at No. 4.'

" 'What, the
red-headed man?'

" 'Yes.'

" 'Oh,' said
he, 'his name was William Morris. He was a solicitor and was using my room as
a temporary convenience until his new premises were ready. He moved out yesterday.'

" 'Where could
I find him?'

" 'Oh, at
his new offices. He did tell me the address. Yes, 17 King Edward Street, near
St. Paul's.'

"I started
off, Mr. Holmes, but when I got to that address it was a manufactory of artificial
knee-caps, and no one in it had ever heard of either Mr. William Morris or Mr.
Duncan Ross."

"And what
did you do then?" asked Holmes.

"I went home
to Saxe-Coburg Square, and I took the advice of my assistant. But he could not
help me in any way. He could only say that if I waited I should hear by post.
But that was not quite good enough, Mr. Holmes. I did not wish to lose such
a place without a struggle, so, as I had heard that you were good enough to
give advice to poor folk who were in need of it, I came right away to you."

"And you did
very wisely," said Holmes. "Your case is an exceedingly remarkable
one, and I shall be happy to look into it. From what you have told me I think
that it is possible that graver issues hang from it than might at first sight
appear."

"Grave enough!"
said Mr. Jabez Wilson. "Why, I have lost four pound a week."

"As far as
you are personally concerned," remarked Holmes, "I do not see that
you have any grievance against this extraordinary league. On the contrary, you
are, as I understand, richer by some 30 pounds, to say nothing of the minute
knowledge which you have gained on every subject which comes under the letter
A. You have lost nothing by them."

"No, sir.
But I want to find out about them, and who they are, and what their object was
in playing this prank -- if it was a prank -- upon me. It was a pretty expensive
joke for them, for it cost them two and thirty pounds."

"We shall
endeavour to clear up these points for you. And, first, one or two questions,
Mr. Wilson. This assistant of yours who first called your attention to the advertisement
-- how long had he been with you?"

"About a month
then."

"How did he
come?"

"In answer
to an advertisement."

"Was he the
only applicant?"

"No, I had
a dozen."

"Why did you
pick him?"

"Because he
was handy and would come cheap."

"At half-wages,
in fact."

"Yes."

"What is he
like, this Vincent Spaulding?"

"Small, stout-built,
very quick in his ways, no hair on his face, though he's not short of thirty.
Has a white splash of acid upon his forehead."

Holmes sat up in
his chair in considerable excitement. "I thought as much," said he.
"Have you ever observed that his ears are pierced for earrings?"

"Yes, sir.
He told me that a gypsy had done it for him when he was a lad."

"Hum!"
said Holmes, sinking back in deep thought. "He is still with you?"

"Oh, yes,
sir; I have only just left him."

"And has your
business been attended to in your absence?"

"Nothing to
complain of, sir. There's never very much to do of a morning."

"That will
do, Mr. Wilson. I shall be happy to give you an opinion upon the subject in
the course of a day or two. To-day is Saturday, and I hope that by Monday we
may come to a conclusion."

"Well, Watson,"
said Holmes when our visitor had left us, "what do you make of it all?"

"I make nothing
of it," I answered frankly. "It is a most mysterious business."

"As a rule,"
said Holmes, "the more bizarre a thing is the less mysterious it proves
to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes which are really puzzling,
just as a commonplace face is the most difficult to identify. But I must be
prompt over this matter."

"What are
you going to do, then?" I asked.

"To smoke,"
he answered. "It is quite a three pipe problem, and I beg that you won't
speak to me for fifty minutes." He curled himself up in his chair, with
his thin knees drawn up to his hawk-like nose, and there he sat with his eyes
closed and his black clay pipe thrusting out like the bill of some strange bird.
I had come to the conclusion that he had dropped asleep, and indeed was nodding
myself, when he suddenly sprang out of his chair with the gesture of a man who
has made up his mind and put his pipe down upon the mantelpiece.

"Sarasate
plays at the St. James's Hall this afternoon," he remarked. "What
do you think, Watson? Could your patients spare you for a few hours?"

"I have nothing
to do to-day. My practice is never very absorbing."

"Then put
on your hat and come. I am going through the City first, and we can have some
lunch on the way. I observe that there is a good deal of German music on the
programme, which is rather more to my taste than Italian or French. It is introspective,
and I want to introspect. Come along!"

We travelled by
the Underground as far as Aldersgate; and a short walk took us to Saxe-Coburg
Square, the scene of the singular story which we had listened to in the morning.
It was a poky, little, shabby-genteel place, where four lines of dingy two-storied
brick houses looked out into a small railed-in enclosure, where a lawn of weedy
grass and a few clumps of faded laurel-bushes made a hard fight against a smoke-laden
and uncongenial atmosphere. Three gilt balls and a brown board with "JABEZ
WILSON" in white letters, upon a corner house, announced the place where
our red-headed client carried on his business. Sherlock Holmes stopped in front
of it with his head on one side and looked it all over, with his eyes shining
brightly between puckered lids. Then he walked slowly up the street, and then
down again to the corner, still looking keenly at the houses. Finally he returned
to the pawnbroker's, and, having thumped vigorously upon the pavement with his
stick two or three times, he went up to the door and knocked. It was instantly
opened by a bright-looking, clean-shaven young fellow, who asked him to step
in.

"Thank you,"
said Holmes, "I only wished to ask you how you would go from here to the
Strand."

"Smart fellow,
that," observed Holmes as we walked away. "He is, in my judgment.
the fourth smartest man in London, and for daring I am not sure that he has
not a claim to be third. I have known something of him before."

"Evidently,"
said I, "Mr. Wilson's assistant counts for a good deal in this mystery
of the Red-headed League. I am sure that you inquired your way merely in order
that you might see him."

"Not him."

"What then?"

"The knees
of his trousers."

"And what
did you see?"

"What I expected
to see."

"Why did you
beat the pavement?"

"My dear doctor,
this is a time for observation, not for talk. We are spies in an enemy's country.
We know something of Saxe-Coburg Square. Let us now explore the parts which
lie behind it."

The road in which
we found ourselves as we turned round the corner from the retired Saxe-Coburg
Square presented as great a contrast to it as the front of a picture does to
the back. It was one of the main arteries which conveyed the traffic of the
City to the north and west. The roadway was blocked with the immense stream
of commerce flowing in a double tide inward and outward, while the footpaths
were black with the hurrying swarm of pedestrians. It was difficult to realize
as we looked at the line of fine shops and stately business premises that they
really abutted on the other side upon the faded and stagnant square which we
had just quitted.

"Let me see,"
said Holmes, standing at the corner and glancing along the line, "I should
like just to remember the order of the houses here. It is a hobby of mine to
have an exact knowledge of London. There is Mortimer's, the tobacconist, the
little newspaper shop, the Coburg branch of the City and Suburban Bank, the
Vegetarian Restaurant, and McFarlane's carriage-building depot. That carries
us right on to the other block. And now, Doctor, we've done our work, so it's
time we had some play. A sandwich and a cup of coffee, and then off to violin-land,
where all is sweetness and delicacy and harmony, and there are no red-headed
clients to vex us with their conundrums."

My friend was an
enthusiastic musician, being himself not only a very capable perfomer but a
composer of no ordinary merit. All the afternoon he sat in the stalls wrapped
in the most perfect happiness, gently waving his long, thin fingers in time
to the music, while his gently smiling face and his languid, dreamy eyes were
as unlike those of Holmes, the sleuth-hound, Holmes the relentless, keen-witted,
ready-handed criminal agent, as it was possible to conceive. In his singular
character the dual nature alternately asserted itself, and his extreme exactness
and astuteness represented, as I have often thought, the reaction against the
poetic and contemplative mood which occasionally predominated in him. The swing
of his nature took him from extreme languor to devouring energy; and, as I knew
well, he was never so truly formidable as when, for days on end, he had been
lounging in his armchair amid his improvisations and his black-letter editions.
Then it was that the lust of the chase would suddenly come upon him, and that
his brilliant reasoning power would rise to the level of intuition, until those
who were unacquainted with his methods would look askance at him as on a man
whose knowledge was not that of other mortals. When I saw him that afternoon
so enwrapped in the music at St. James's Hall I felt that an evil time might
be coming upon those whom he had set himself to hunt down.

"You want
to go home, no doubt, Doctor," he remarked as we emerged.

"Yes, it would
be as well."

"And I have
some business to do which will take some hours. This business at Coburg Square
is serious."

"Why serious?"

"A considerable
crime is in contemplation. I have every reason to believe that we shall be in
time to stop it. But to-day being Saturday rather complicates matters. I shall
want your help to-night."

"At what time?"

"Ten will
be early enough."

"I shall be
at Baker Street at ten."

"Very well.
And, I say, Doctor, there may be some little danger, so kindly put your army
revolver in your pocket." He waved his hand, turned on his heel, and disappeared
in an instant among the crowd.

I trust that I
am not more dense than my neighbours, but I was always oppressed with a sense
of my own stupidity in my dealings with Sherlock Holmes. Here I had heard what
he had heard, I had seen what he had seen, and yet from his words it was evident
that he saw clearly not only what had happened but what was about to happen,
while to me the whole business was still confused and grotesque. As I drove
home to my house in Kensington I thought over it all, from the extraordinary
story of the red-headed copier of the Encyclopedia down to the visit to Saxe-Coburg
Square, and the ominous words with which he had parted from me. What was this
nocturnal expedition, and why should I go armed? Where were we going, and what
were we to do? I had the hint from Holmes that this smooth-faced pawnbroker's
assistant was a formidable man -- a man who might play a deep game. I tried
to puzzle it out, but gave it up in despair and set the matter aside until night
should bring an explanation.

It was a quarter-past
nine when I started from home and made my way across the Park, and so through
Oxford Street to Baker Street. Two hansoms were standing at the door, and as
I entered the passage I heard the sound of voices from above. On entering his
room I found Holmes in animated conversation with two men, one of whom I recognized
as Peter Jones, the official police agent, while the other was a long, thin,
sad-faced man, with a very shiny hat and oppressively respectable frock-coat.

"Ha! Our party
is complete," said Holmes, buttoning up his peajacket and taking his heavy
hunting crop from the rack. "Watson, I think you know Mr. Jones, of Scotland
Yard? Let me introduce you to Mr. Merryweather, who is to be our companion in
to-night's adventure."

"We're hunting
in couples again, Doctor, you see," said Jones in his consequential way.
"Our friend here is a wonderful man for starting a chase. All he wants
is an old dog to help him to do the running down."

"I hope a
wild goose may not prove to be the end of our chase," observed Mr. Merryweather
gloomily.

"You may place
considerable confidence in Mr. Holmes, sir," said the police agent loftily.
"He has his own little methods, which are, if he won't mind my saying so,
just a little too theoretical and fantastic, but he has the makings of a detective
in him. It is not too much to say that once or twice, as in that business of
the Sholto murder and the Agra treasure, he has been more nearly correct than
the official force."

"Oh, if you
say so, Mr. Jones, it is all right," said the stranger with deference.
"Still, I confess that I miss my rubber. It is the first Saturday night
for seven-and-twenty years that I have not had my rubber."

"I think you
will find," said Sherlock Holmes, "that you will play for a higher
stake to-night than you have ever done yet, and that the play will be more exciting.
For you, Mr. Merryweather, the stake will be some 30,000 pounds; and for you,
Jones, it will be the man upon whom you wish to lay your hands."

"John Clay,
the murderer, thief, smasher, and forger. He's a young man, Mr. Merryweather,
but he is at the head of his profession, and I would rather have my bracelets
on him than on any criminal in London. He's a remarkable man, is young John
Clay. His grandfather was a royal duke, and he himself has been to Eton and
Oxford. His brain is as cunning.as his fingers, and though we meet signs of
him at every turn, we never know where to find the man himself. He'll crack
a crib in Scotland one week, and be raising money to build an orphanage in Cornwall
the next. I've been on his track for years and have never set eyes on him yet."

"I hope that
I may have the pleasure of introducing you to-night. I've had one or two little
turns also with Mr. John Clay, and I agree with you that he is at the head of
his profession. It is past ten, however, and quite time that we started. If
you two will take the first hansom, Watson and I will follow in the second."

Sherlock Holmes
was not very communicative during the long drive and lay back in the cab humming
the tunes which he had heard in the afternoon. We rattled through an endless
labyrinth of gas-lit streets until we emerged into Farrington Street.

"We are close
there now," my friend remarked. "This fellow Merryweather is a bank
director, and personally interested in the matter. I thought it as well to have
Jones with us also. He is not a bad fellow, though an absolute imbecile in his
profession. He has one positive virtue. He is as brave as a bulldog and as tenacious
as a lobster if he gets his claws upon anyone. Here we are, and they are waiting
for us."

We had reached
the same crowded thoroughfare in which we had found ourselves in the morning.
Our cabs were dismissed, and, following the guidance of Mr. Merryweather, we
passed down a narrow passage and through a side door, which he opened for us.
Within there was a small corridor, which ended in a very massive iron gate.
This also was opened, and led down a flight of winding stone steps, which terminated
at another formidable gate. Mr. Merryweather stopped to light a lantern, and
then conducted us down a dark, earth-smelling passage, and so, after opening
a third door, into a huge vault or cellar, which was piled all round with crates
and massive boxes.

"You are not
very vulnerable from above," Holmes remarked as he held up the lantern
and gazed about him.

"Nor from
below," said Mr. Merryweather, striking his stick upon the flags which
lined the floor. "Why, dear me, it sounds quite hollow!" he remarked,
looking up in surprise.

"I must really
ask you to be a little more quiet!" said Holmes severely. "You have
already imperilled the whole success of our expedition. Might I beg that you
would have the goodness to sit down upon one of those boxes, and not to interfere?"

The solemn Mr.
Merryweather perched himself upon a crate, with a very injured expression upon
his face, while Holmes fell upon his knees upon the floor and, with the lantern
and a magnifying lens, began to exarnine minutely the cracks between the stones.
A few seconds sufficed to satisfy him, for he sprang to his feet again and put
his glass in his pocket.

"We have at
least an hour before us," he remarked, "for they can hardly take any
steps until the good pawnbroker is safely in bed. Then they will not lose a
minute, for the sooner they do their work the longer time they will have for
their escape. We are at present, Doctor -- as no doubt you have divined -- in
the cellar of the City branch of one of the principal London banks. Mr. Merryweather
is the chairman of directors, and he will explain to you that there are reasons
why the more daring criminals of London should take a considerable interest
in this cellar at present."

"It is our
French gold," whispered the director. "We have had several warnings
that an attempt might be made upon it."

"Your French
gold?"

"Yes. We had
occasion some months ago to strengthen our resources and borrowed for that purpose
30,000 napoleons from the Bank of France. It has become known that we have never
had occasion to unpack the money, and that it is still lying in our cellar.
The crate upon which I sit contains 2,000 napoleons packed between layers of
lead foil. Our reserve of bullion is much larger at present than is usually
kept in a single branch office, and the directors have had misgivings upon the
subject."

"Which were
very well justified," observed Holmes. "And now it is time that we
arranged our little plans. I expect that within an hour matters will come to
a head. In the meantime Mr. Merryweather, we must put the screen over that dark
lantern."

"And sit in
the dark?"

"I am afraid
so. I had brought a pack of cards in my pocket, and I thought that, as we were
a partie carree, you might have your rubber after all. But I see that the enemy's
preparations have gone so far that we cannot risk the presence of a light. And,
first of all, we must choose our positions. These are daring men, and though
we shall take them at a disadvantage, they may do us some harm unless we are
careful. I shall stand behind this crate, and do you conceal yourselves behind
those. Then, when I flash a light upon them, close in swiftly. If they fire,
Watson, have no compunction about shooting them down."

I placed my revolver,
cocked, upon the top of the wooden case behind which I crouched. Holmes shot
the slide across the front of his lantern and left us in pitch darkness -- such
an absolute darkness as I have never before experienced. The smell of hot metal
remained to assure us that the light was still there, ready to flash out at
a moment's notice. To me, with my nerves worked up to a pitch of expectancy,
there was something depressing and subduing in the sudden gloom, and in the
cold dank air of the vault.

"They have
but one retreat," whispered Holmes. "That is back through the house
into Saxe-Coburg Square. I hope that you have done what I asked you, Jones?"

"l have an
inspector and two officers waiting at the front door."

"Then we have
stopped all the holes. And now we must be silent and wait."

What a time it
seemed! From comparing notes afterwards it was but an hour and a quarter, yet
it appeared to me that the night must have almost gone. and the dawn be breaking
above us. My limbs were weary and stiff, for I feared to change my position;
yet my nerves were worked up to the highest pitch of tension, and my hearing
was so acute that I could not only hear the gentle breathing of my companions,
but I could distinguish the deeper, heavier in-breath of the bulky Jones from
the thin, sighing note of the bank director. From my position I could look over
the case in the direction of the floor. Suddenly my eyes caught the glint of
a light.

At first it was
but a lurid spark upon the stone pavement. Then it lengthened out until it became
a yellow line, and then, without any warning or sound, a gash seemed to open
and a hand appeared; a white, almost womanly hand, which felt about in the centre
of the little area of light. For a minute or more the hand, with its writhing
fingers, protruded out of the floor. Then it was withdrawn as suddenly as it
appeared, and all was dark again save the single lurid spark which marked a
chink between the stones.

Its disappearance,
however, was but momentary. With a rending, tearing sound, one of the broad.
white stones turned over upon its side and left a square, gaping hole, through
which streamed the light of a lantern. Over the edge there peeped a clean-cut,
boyish face, which looked keenly about it, and then. with a hand on either side
of the aperture, drew itself shoulderhigh and waist-high, until one knee rested
upon the edge. In another instant he stood at the side of the hole and was hauling
after him a companion, lithe and small like himself, with a pale face and a
shock of very red hair.

"It's all
clear," he whispered. "Have you the chisel and the bags? Great Scott!
Jump, Archie, jump, and I'll swing for it!"

Sherlock Holmes
had sprung out and seized the intruder by the collar. The other dived down the
hole, and I heard the sound of rending cloth as Jones clutched at his skirts.
The light flashed upon the barrel of a revolver, but Holmes's hunting crop came
down on the man's wrist, and the pistol clinked upon the stone floor.

"It's no use,
John Clay," said Holmes blandly. "You have no chance at all."

"So I see,"
the other answered with the utmost coolness. "I fancy that my pal is all
right, though I see you have got his coat-tails."

"There are
three men waiting for him at the door," said Holmes.

"Oh, indeed!
You seem to have done the thing very completely. I must compliment you."

"And I you,"
Holmes answered. "Your red-headed idea was very new and effective."

"You'll see
your pal again presently," said Jones. "He's quicker at climbing down
holes than I am. Just hold out while I fix the derbies."

"I beg that
you will not touch me with your filthy hands," remarked our prisoner as
the handcuffs clattered upon his wrists. "You may not be aware that I have
royal blood in my veins. Have the goodness, also, when you address me always
to say 'sir' and 'please.' "

"All right,"
said Jones with a stare and a snigger. "Well, would you please, sir, march
upstairs, where we can get a cab to carry your Highness to the police-station?"

"That is better,"
said John Clay serenely. He made a sweeping bow to the three of us and walked
quietly off in the custody of the detective.

"Really, Mr.
Holmes," said Mr. Merryweather as we followed them from the cellar, "I
do not know how the bank can thank you or repay you. There is no doubt that
you have detected and defeated in the most complete manner one of the most determined
attempts at bank robbery that have ever come within my experience."

"I have had
one or two little scores of my own to settle with Mr. John Clay," said
Holmes. "I have been at some small expense over this matter, which I shall
expect the bank to refund, but beyond that I am amply repaid by having had an
experience which is in many ways unique, and by hearing the very remarkable
narrative of the Red-headed League."

"You see, Watson," he explained in the early hours of the morning
as we sat over a glass of whisky and soda in Baker Street, "it was perfectly
obvious from the first that the only possible object of this rather fantastic
business of the advertisement of the League, and the copying of the Encyclopedia,
must be to get this not over-bright pawnbroker out of the way for a number of
hours every day. It was a curious way of managing it, but, really, it would
be difficult to suggest a better. The method was no doubt suggested to Clay's
ingenious mind by the colour of his accomplice's hair. The 4 pounds a week was
a lure which must draw him, and what was it to them, who were playing for thousands?
They put in the advertisement, one rogue has the temporary office, the other
rogue incites the man to apply for it. and together they manage to secure his
absence every morning in the week. From the time that I heard of the assistant
having come for half wages, it was obvious to me that he had some strong motive
for securing the situation."

"But how could
you guess what the motive was?"

"Had there
been women in the house, I should have suspected a mere vulgar intrigue. That,
however, was out of the question. The man's business was a small one, and there
was nothing in his house which could account for such elaborate preparations,
and such an expenditure as they were at. It must, then, be something out of
the house. What could it be? I thought of the assistant's fondness for photography,
and his trick of vanishing into the cellar. The cellar! There was the end of
this tangled clue. Then I made inquiries as to this mysterious assistant and
found that I had to deal with one of the coolest and most daring criminals in
London. He was doing something in the cellar -- something which took many hours
a day for months on end. What could it be, once more? I could think of nothing
save that he was running a tunnel to some other building.

"So far I
had got when we went to visit the scene of action. I surprised you by beating
upon the pavement with my stick. I was ascertaining whether the cellar stretched
out in front or behind. It was not in front. Then I rang the bell, and, as I
hoped, the assistant answered it. We have had some skirmishes, but we had never
set eyes upon each other before. I hardly looked at his face. His knees were
what I wished to see. You must yourself have remarked how worn, wrinkled, and
stained they were. They spoke of those hours of burrowing. The only remaining
point was what they were burrowing for. I walked round the corner, saw the City
and Suburban Bank abutted on our friend's premises, and felt that I had solved
my problem. When you drove home after the concert I called upon Scotland Yard
and upon the chairman of the bank directors, with the result that you have seen."

"And how could
you tell that they would make their attempt to-night?" I asked.

"Well, when
they closed their League offices that was a sign that they cared no longer about
Mr. Jabez Wilson's presence -- in other words, that they had completed their
tunnel. But it was essential that they should use it soon, as it might be discovered,
or the bullion might be removed. Saturday would suit them better than any other
day, as it would give them two days for their escape. For all these reasons
I expected them to come to-night."

"You reasoned
it out beautifully," I exclaimed in unfeigned admiration "It is so
long a chain, and yet every link rings true."

"It saved
me from ennui," he answered, yawning. "Alas! I already feel it closing
in upon me. My life is spent in one long effort to escape from the commonplaces
of existence. These little problems help me to do so."

"And you are
a benefactor of the race," said I.

He shrugged his
shoulders. "Well, perhaps, after all, it is of some little use," he
remarked. " 'L'homme c'est rien -- l' oeuvre c'est tout,' as Gustave Flaubert
wrote to George Sand."